Mortality
by ArwenJaneLilyLyra
Summary: The Chiliarch is dead, and the cold is unseasonable. Perhaps nothing will wake the world from it. The Chiliarch is dead, and perhaps, in this cold, so is the King.


Mortality

The day is unseasonably cold. Then again, all days are unseasonably cold, now. The sun has lost its warmth, or perhaps it was never warm. Just some illusion brought about to hide how cold the world truly is. Some trick of the gods, tomfoolery of nature.

No more.

The king has gathered himself into his arms as one gathers child. He trembles, and the hairs on his bare arms rise frostily against the chill, but nothing can remove the ache that eats at his marrow. His shorn hair is uneven, unnatural, _unglorious_.

They steer clear of him, all of them, for fear of an outburst. Unpredictable, unprovoked.

Yet one general dares approach the king. _Philobasileus_, they call him, and he accepts the name, has grown accustomed to it. He actually likes it.

The guards let him in without reluctance. They know him, and they trust him, and perhaps they even _want _ him to go inside. There is a fearful sadness in their eyes that wasn't there before. He is allowed in and the one he seeks is outside, on a picturesque balcony that does not befit the sombre aura of the king that stands there.

_Philobasileus_ pays little heed to this. He is not here for the view, or for the delightedness of the company.

"Your people are in mourning, Alexander."

If this is meant to please the king, the sentence would have been better left unsaid. The king visibly bristles.

"As they should be."

An unnecessary response to an unnecessary statement. Alexander doesn't care for niceties, or for etiquette, or for whatever else his general expects.

"Is that not enough?" Krateros asks delicately, even braces himself in case a fist flies. But the king's arms wrap tighter around himself, jutting jaw grinding against that unseasonable cold that has spread throughout Ecbatana, perhaps throughout the world.

"Nothing will ever be enough again. Enough would imply contentment."

His voice is cracked, and he doesn't know whether to be ashamed of the tears that cling to his lashes or not. He's lost, and that cold! He can't bear that cold a second longer.

But he will. He'll bear it.

"I'm sorry, Alexander." Krateros speaks, as ever, genuinely. His dark eyes search the king's face with an intensity that would, at another time, be considered almost rude.

Not today. Not now.

"You are as sorry as you can be, Krateros." A rather generous answer, all things considered. He could be angry, but instead he is understanding. It doesn't happen often. A sarcastic, scathing remark bubbles up the general's throat and rests on his lips, but he swallows it back down. He doesn't want to encourage the flying fist.

"And that is not quite enough?"

The king doesn't need to shake his head for Krateros to know he is right, and his lips twitch sadly.

Alexander can feel things as they threaten to cave. The world; the city; his rule; his ribcage. It's so close to shattering, and the cold is squeezing that strength from it all.

"My Lord," the general rarely begins sentences in such a way over a private matter, but he's aware of his impertinence and hopes desperately not to be executed personally by the king for his spoken thoughts. "May I speak plainly?"

"You always have done before." The blond is like a wolf, a tired alpha male addressing the youngest pup in the pack. Ironic, almost, as Krateros knows himself to be the senior in age.

"He was just a man."

The muscles twitch in the shoulder, he wraps his arms all the more tightly and swallows - swallow the cold! Chill down throat to stomach pit until he's frozen. And he doesn't reply at first, but is grateful the general waits. He will reply. He will speak those cold, cold words.

"I had forgotten that until recently."

Cracked words uttered from cracked lips. And he doesn't wish to speak again. He wishes to scream into the cold air and yet he can't. And he is forced to hear what no man should hear, he is sure of it.

"Your people need a king, your Majesty."

Why is he being so polite? The king doesn't know.

"We need you, Alexander!" Krateros implores, begs, pleads. It's not enough, surely, a particularly desperate tone of voice. Words and thoughts cannot heal this wound, cannot bridge this valley. "We need you to guide us!" So desperate. He's angrier than he means to be. Perhaps it's the cold, this angry, bitter cold. It's turning his head, his thoughts. "And if I must speak ill of the dead to show you this then so be it!" He's shouting now, but the cold, cold wind is catching his words. "He was just a man!" Wind swallows screams whole, the bastard. "But you! You are so much more. We need you!"

The king's eyes are cold. His stare is cold and Krateros shrinks from it, but does not take back his words. the words that this cold wind dragged from his lips.

"Please," the older man asks, the word ghosting his tongue, his mouth, his teeth. "Please."

A shake of the hand sends him away.

He leaves, thankful for his life, fearing retribution. He's so scared he doesn't see the dark flicker of light in the king's eyes.

And the king turns his back on the cold. Turns away from the cold city and the cold wind that whistles its cold tune.

He sits in his room. He holds a book in his hands, staring and wondering and considering. And the tears that flow are hot against his cold face, and the sobs that shudder his chest heat up his cold body. And _The Iliad_ slips from between his fingers, clatters to the floor.

He picks it up, the dust lovingly wiped from his spine. The books lies open in his hand.

_Achilles__ mourned his father, then again Patroclus, and their mourning stirred the house._

"Just a man."

The words are soft, and the love so great it dispels that coldness of their reality. Nonetheless he shakes his head.

No, not just a man.

* * *

><p><em>Quote: The Iliad<em>

_[Wind swallows screams whole, the bastard.] is a line taken from a short story I have written and is published on FictionPress. I thought it was quite fitting, so have used it again here._

_I am taking a liberty here, because I know that Krateros was sent back to Macedonia in 324, the same year Hephaestion died. I just don't know what order it happened in, and I didn't want to check because if it was the other way around (Krateros leaves __then__ Hephaestion dies), I wouldn't have been able to write this. I hope this minor discrepancy can go ignored._

_Please review, it makes me very happy to know what people think._


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